Mildred and Harry embarked on an adventure without speaking. Not because neither of them could actually speak, but because the author of this mess is too bloody lazy to bother with quotations etc...

Harry swung open the bathroom door. He reached inside his costume and pulled out the bazooka. Aiming just below his Mother-in-Law's head, he fiddled with the knobs because your author is too lazy to do and research to find out what they are really called, and fired. He took out the alien lifeforce that was circling over his Aunt's tits and managed to destroy a pretty good custard tart as well. Mildred ducked and gasped as the maitre de handed her the cheque. Harry, biceps greased, tanned and bulging just for this visual, took hold of the busboy and broke him in two over his knee. His ripped tuxedo flapping as the flames lapped at his spats. Mildred ran from the evil monkeys and threw herself on the mercy of a travelling band of missionaries they told her of a great man called Joseph who got some virgin named Mary preggers by not wiping himself on the curtains and engaging in run on sentences.
Harry took one look at the carnage, lit a stogie and calmly quipped something. Whatever it was, writers block deems it impossible to jot down here. Mildred sighed, swooned and put the back of her hand to her forehead. She had to use her other hand to do this as her other hand, (no, the other one) had been blown off by Harry's bazooka. He had also used his massive weapon to wipe the smile off some snivelling liberal who said it was all the fault of upbringing and kids today needed love, not prison. Harry snorted, put his cigar out in the liberals eye, grabbed one armed Mildred and lept a tall buffet in one bound, breaking the neck of a nameless hood who had 5 kids to feed. Flinging down twenty lire for the bill and running out to his 4 cylinder, 123 horsepower Bugatti, he drove off and crashed into the cardboard sunset that was cheaply drawn by Paul Simonon.